


give me your filth (and make it rough)

by figure8



Series: it's not where you come from (it's where you belong) [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Maybe if you could—maybe if you could hold me down?”</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Clark learns something about Bruce that brings him to his very own epiphany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artemine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemine/gifts).



> ahhh man. this one... spiraled out of my control completely. it was supposed to be literally just porn? but then surprise! plot!  
> it takes place a good six months after [this is where love comes to die](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5655949), that i highly suggest you read before this.

It starts out—it starts out unexpectedly.

They’ve been casually fucking for a while now, been friends for just as long, and it’s easy. It’s familiar. It’s probably why it happens, the first time. Why Bruce lets his carefully constructed façade—his _control_ slip. They’re in Bruce’s bed— _his bed_ , in _his room_ , not one of the random guestrooms of the Manor, and that is already one step too far, Clark knows. They’re in his bed and they’re making out like teenagers, Clark straddling Bruce’s lap and moving his hips lazily, just the tiniest bit of friction because it’s that kind of evening and they have all the time in the world, and he wants to appreciate the warmth of their embrace before he does anything else. Bruce is propped up, one hand on the mattress and the other buried in Clark’s dark curls, and their chests are touching, burning skin against burning skin. Clark slides his mouth down Bruce’s jawline, biting and licking, tasting the salt of his sweat. He knows, rationally, that he’s stronger than Bruce, but he tends to forget it, because they’re roughly the same size and because Bruce works out, is all hard lines and lean muscle. But he _is_ stronger, and he is technically taller too. Bruce goes for his cock, and Clark curls his fingers around his wrist and holds him there, a breath away from what he wants.

“Not _yet_ ,” he murmurs, firmly. Bruce tries to bypass him but his grip remains of iron, and he can see in Bruce’s blue eyes the moment his lover realizes he _can’t break his hold_ , a flicker of comprehension. Clark’s apology dies on his lips when Bruce _whimpers_. “Okay,” he says, releasing him. “Okay, you wanna talk about this?”

Bruce flushes bright red. “No.” He untangles himself from Clark, scrambles back until his back hits the headboard. “I’m sorry.”

Clark shakes his head, reaches for him but doesn’t touch him. “Don’t apologize.” He winces when it dawns on him how much like an order that sounded like. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he amends.

“I ruined the moment,” Bruce grimaces.

“You didn’t—you didn’t ruin _anything_. Hey, come here.”

Bruce looks away. His cheeks are still pink, from both lust and shame. He’s beautiful. “You want to _talk about it_ ,” he says, and it sounds accusing.

“As in _I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, tell me what you need_?” Clark laughs. He crawls up to Bruce, kisses his collarbone. “Tell me what you need, baby,” he says again. Bruce remains silent for a long while, his breaths coming out harsh as Clark presses gentle kisses to his throat. Finally— _finally—_ he whispers:

“Maybe if you could—maybe if you could hold me down?”

“Yeah? You’d like that?”

Bruce emits a long-suffering groan. “I just asked you for it, didn’t I?”

“Okay,” Clark says, and then he doesn’t actually do anything, because—because he has no idea how these things are supposed to go. He’s a twenty year old boy from Smallville, Kansas, for God’s sake. He had exactly one serious girlfriend before meeting Bruce, and sure, there were a bunch of boys at frat parties during his first semester at Metropolis U, but all he really learned with them was how to suck dick without inadvertently using his teeth. Bruce… Bruce is something else entirely. What they do in bed feels serious, adult. Bruce is brilliant and sophisticated, and Clark doesn’t usually feel bad about where he comes from, but sometimes the gap between them feels more like an abyss. It’s not—not what he wants to be thinking of right now, not when Bruce is staring up at him with a strange mixture of hope and fear in his wary smile, laying naked and flustered on silken bed sheets. “Turn around,” Clark ends up telling him, because it sounds like a good starting point. He won’t have to look Bruce in the eye that way, and maybe all this will feel a little less ridiculous. “Grab the bedhead.”

Bruce gets on his knees facing away from Clark, places his hands on the headboard. Clark draws in a breath. He doesn’t know why he feels so shy, suddenly. He knows Bruce’s body, could retrace him eyes closed. He has touched him everywhere, kissed him everywhere, in the dark, in the daytime. He knows the sounds Bruce makes, the way he trembles when he’s close, how he bites his lip to refrain from making too much noise. And yet Clark didn’t know Bruce longed for a loss of control, wanted it so badly it took one firm hand around his wrist to unveil him completely.

Kissing his way down Bruce’s spine is familiar enough, gentle enough that Clark can do it without thinking about it too long. He punctuates it with faint bites and licks, hums contently when Bruce shivers under him.

“Don’t move,” he tells him, and Bruce stills immediately. Bruce, who never lets anyone tell him what to do. Powerful, unexpected want rushes through Clark’s body, all the way down to his cock. He’s never wanted to push someone down and _take them_ but he thinks he gets it now, gets the appeal of being the one in command, the one holding the reins. There is something dangerously exhilarating about being the man who gets to give orders to Bruce Wayne.

“Please,” Bruce says. Clark runs a hand along his side, kisses the small of his back.

“If you keep very still,” he says in what he hopes is an assured voice, “I’ll give you what you want. But you can’t move at all until I say so. Alright?”

“Yes,” Bruce pants. “Yeah, anything.”

It’s too tempting, too easy. If Bruce wants a challenge, Clark can give him that. He slides further down, spreads Bruce’s cheeks apart and leans in to lick at his hole. Bruce tenses like a wire, but he keeps his word and doesn’t move. He tastes good, musky and clean, and Clark growls as he gets him sloppy wet, working him open on his tongue. For the first time since they started this, he wishes Bruce was on his back, wishes he could just glance up and watch Bruce’s face as he fights the urge to move while Clark fucks into him with his tongue.

“Baby,” he says, pulling back with a slurping sound that rings _obscene_ even to his own ears. “I’m impressed.” Bruce doesn’t say anything, but he’s trembling with the effort of keeping still, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach. Clark runs an experimental finger along the shaft and Bruce shudders. “Let’s say that didn’t count,” Clark huffs, dropping a kiss to his shoulder.

“You gonna fuck me anytime soon?” Bruce grits.

Grabbing the lube from the nightstand, Clark lets the silence stretch, pretends he’s thinking about it. “I don’t know,” he drawls as he uncaps the bottle, coats his fingers with it, “Do you deserve it?” It’s surprisingly easy, now that they’ve gotten into it. The words come effortlessly.

“I do,” Bruce replies, because when has he ever been anything else than awfully self-confident. “I didn’t move.”

He’s loose already when Clark shoves two fingers into him, and careful isn’t what either of them is going for, so he adds a third one fairly quickly. Bruce bites his lower lip and grunts, trying to keep the sounds in like he always does, only this time Clark doesn’t let him. “Don’t,” he growls. “I want to hear you.”

It becomes very clear very fast, why Bruce didn’t want to let the words flow out. Clark crooks his fingers inside him and Bruce _wails_ , a waterfall of pleas falling from his lips. He swears colorfully when Clark slides them out.

Clark skims a palm over the base of Bruce’s spine.

He doesn’t slide in slowly as he usually does, inch by inch. He doesn’t give Bruce time to adjust. He just slams his hips forward with a surge that sends Bruce forwards, the bedframe shaking, and then fucks out again just as fast. The first thrusts feel so good he forgets for a moment what Bruce _actually_ asked him to do earlier, what this whole thing has been building up to. Closing a hand around both of Bruce’s wrists, he brings them down on the mattress, Bruce’s face pressing into a pillow. It changes the angle, brings them even closer together, and now every time Clark pounds into him he can distinctly _hear_ the slap of skin on skin. For a while it is the only sound in the room, and then suddenly Bruce goes tense and shaky like he’s been electrocuted.

“There, _fuck_ , right there,” he moans.

Clark bites down on the tender skin at the junction of his throat with his neck, hard enough that he knows he’s going to leave a mark. Bruce will hate him for it later but right now the only thing that matters is making Bruce his, earning the filthy sighs Bruce is making as Clark nails that sweet spot inside him, every _ah_ and _fuck, right here, harder_. When he comes, he goes unexpectedly voiceless, quivering under Clark as he shoots his load, untouched.

“Come on,” he purrs lazily when he’s regained his breath, when Clark attempts to pull out. “Finish in me, you know you want to.”

Clark makes a small strangled noise and just _goes for it_ , pumps in two more times before he slumps down over Bruce’s back with a harsh panting grunt, his vision going white as he comes harder than he’s ever experienced in his _life._

“We didn’t use a condom,” is the first thing he thinks of saying when he remembers how to use his voice to form coherent words.

“Whatever,” Bruce mumbles under him. “Can you get off? You’re crushing me.”

 _I just got off_ , Clark almost jokes. “Was it good?” he asks instead as he rolls on his back. Bruce doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“Yeah,” he breathes out just as Clark is ready to wither away and _die_ in shame. “Yeah, it was good. Thank you.”

“Anytime, babe,” Clark smiles almost against his will, and finds he means it.

 

\--

 

They don’t talk about it. _Of course_ they don’t talk about it. It’s not like they see each other a lot anyway—they live in two different cities, and they’re both going to school, and on top of that Bruce likes to pretend they’re _just friends_ as long as they’re not, you know, actively doing it. So Clark doesn’t dare mention it, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t _think about it_ all the damn time. He does some research, most of it to no avail. Watches a lot of porn, too; finds out he still absolutely isn’t into anything that is even remotely close to rough sex if it involves women. The gay porn is… different. It doesn’t work for him every time, because some things just don’t turn him on—humiliation is a big no-no, painplay freaks him out, and depending on the mood he’s in bondage sometimes just looks… well, ridiculous. But he also has never spent so much time in front of his TV screen jacking off, so. _Something_ about all this definitely does it for him.

Bruce calls him three weeks later, to ask if he has plans for Columbus Day. They’ve communicated sporadically through email—Bruce likes to send him random stuff when he’s bored in class, which he can do because he’s one of these rich assholes with portable computer units—but nothing really compares to actually hearing his voice. It lights something aflame inside Clark, something he doesn’t want to look at too closely just yet.

So, Bruce invites him over for the weekend, and Clark says yes, because he doesn’t have anything else to do and not because just _picturing_ Bruce has him burning. Bruce greets him by slamming him against a wall and fucking him stupid, which Clark appreciates, but it means they still _aren’t talking about it_. They spend three days practically never getting out of bed, and it’s like they cannot stop touching each other. Bruce sucks his dick underwater in the pool, and Clark rewards him by binding his wrists together with a silk tie when they fuck again later that evening. Bruce whines and begs under him and it’s the most gorgeous sight.

When he leaves on Tuesday morning, there hasn’t been a discussion.

 

\--

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bruce gasps.

Clark stills above him. Bruce is laid out on his back, his hand gripping the headboard tightly, his legs thrown over Clark’s shoulders. The muscles in his arms are visibly straining, veins protuberant and sweat glistening on his pale skin.

“Can I tie you up?” Clark asks out of the blue, the words tumbling from his lips almost against his will. Bruce raises a dubious eyebrow.

_“Now?”_

“No,” Clark says, rolling his hips, fucking into Bruce unhurriedly. “Yes. I don’t know.”

“If you pull out now,” Bruce groans, “I will literally murder you with my bare hands.”

“That’s a very serious threat,” Clark grins, and then he bends down to kiss him on the nose. The motion almost folds Bruce in two, bringing his knees up to his chest, the physicality of it an odd contrast to the tenderness with which Clark holds him. He has one hand pressing flat on Bruce’s abdomen, the other curled around the back of his neck, so it’s easy to bring their foreheads together and stare deep into Bruce’s eyes. “You take it so good,” he drawls, and Bruce moans, bucking up. Well. That’s—that’s interesting, to say the least. Clark took his time prepping him earlier, and he’s taking his time now, too. It always drives Bruce crazy, reduces him to an incoherent mumbling mess in the end, but they usually have to build up to it a lot longer. Kissing him open-mouthed and wet, he angles his thrusts upwards to hit Bruce’s prostate in a steady rhythm, and Bruce just lets himself be used, holding on to the bedframe for dear life. “Baby,” Clark pants against his lips, their breaths mingling, “You’re so beautiful.”

There is a worrying _crack_ as Bruce’s grip on the headboard tightens, his knuckles turning white. “Don’t—” he warns, looking anxious now.

But Clark is starting to understand how this thing they have is supposed to be working. If he doesn’t push, Bruce will never ask for what he truly wants. “ _Don’t_ what? You don’t want me to tell you how perfect you look taking my cock? Like you were made for it? I didn’t say you could let go,” he adds sternly when one of Bruce’s hands slides down the wooden panel.

“I can’t,” Bruce stutters, “I can’t—I’m sorry— _Please._ ”

“You _can_ ,” Clark insists. “Hold on for me, baby boy.” Bruce _sobs_ at that, and Clark takes it as his cue to start pounding into him again vigorously, still whispering sweet nothings in his ear. “ _God_ ,” he marvels, “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this. You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, Bruce, _baby_.”

“Please,” Bruce begs again, shaking under him. “Please, Clark, t-touch me. You have to touch me.”

“No,” Clark says. It’s a bet. A risky one, but one he’s willing to make. If he’s wrong, Bruce can always just tell him to fuck off and jerk himself off anyway, there isn’t anything _actually_ restraining him.

Bruce makes a frustrated strangled sound. “ _Clark_ , I can’t—I _need_ —”

“You can,” Clark repeats. “For me.” Bruce stiffens in his arms; head arched back, his back bending like a bow, seeking some kind of friction, anything. “You want to be good for me, don’t you baby?”

His thrusts are getting erratic. It’s easy to keep the tone of his voice even, to give off some semblance of control, but the truth is Clark has never been this turned on in his entire life. He thinks back to that time in early September, how Bruce had looked face pressed into the mattress and hands prisoners in the vice of Clark’s grip; powerless but still unmistakably strong, and _his_. It’s that mental image that makes him lose it, and he fucks into Bruce furiously until he’s coming with a full-body shudder, biting down on Bruce’s chest to keep himself from screaming.

Bruce grunts unhappily when Clark eases his cock out and takes Bruce’s legs off his shoulders. Clark shushes him and settles between his knees, pushing them apart before bending down and taking Bruce as far as he can into his mouth. This isn’t about finesse or teasing, so he doesn’t lose time and just hollows his cheeks around Bruce’s cock, head bobbing up and down. Very soon, Bruce’s hips start bucking up mechanically, and Clark lets him take what he wants, easing his jaw around him.

“I’m going to—” he grits out, arching up, “ _Clark_ , fuck, _fuck_!”

And then he’s coming in hot spurts down Clark’s throat, his whole body trembling with the rippling strength of his orgasm. Clark licks him clean and then crawls up so he can ease Bruce’s hands off the bedhead and bring him closer to him, cradle him against his chest. He kisses the back of Bruce’s neck, buries his nose in his thick black hair and inhales deeply, swallowing down forcefully the myriad of words fighting to come out his mouth, the litany of _I love you I love you I love you._

And isn’t that the worst thing that could happen to either of them?

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The next time he finds himself in Bruce’s bedroom, they do not fuck.

Clark had been coming back from Smallville, where he spent Christmas break, and Bruce convinced him to make a stop by Gotham before rejoining Metropolis and his dorm room. They went to dinner in a fancy restaurant, had a good time, and then went back to the Manor.

And then Clark started undressing Bruce and saw the bruises.

It’s not like he has the right to be angry. They never said they were exclusive. He _knows_ Bruce doesn’t _do_ exclusive. But he had thought—he had thought that maybe, maybe he was enough. The only reason Bruce slept around in the first place was because he was in the closet, needed the girls to cultivate his playboy image. The marks on Bruce’s hips and forearms are unquestionably male, hand-shaped. The kind one gets from getting fucked. Clark knows because he left the same ones on Bruce the last time they were together.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” he has to ask. It’s a terrible idea, and he realizes that as the words are leaving his mouth, but he cannot stop.

“Excuse me?” Bruce frowns, recoiling.

“You couldn’t wait two fucking weeks for me, you had to find someone else to screw you, because that’s just who you are.” _It’s not like he has the right to be angry_ , but he is. God, he is furious.

“I’m going to give you exactly ten seconds to apologize to me,” Bruce warns him, ice-cold.

“I hope it was worth it. Did he bend you over your desk in your office? Did you bring him here, Bruce? Did he fuck you in your bed?”

Bruce hits him.

“Get the hell out of my home,” he spits, as Clark brings an astounded hand to his bloody nose.

“Bruce,” he starts. This isn’t what he wanted.

He doesn’t know what he wanted.

“Don’t you dare,” Bruce hisses. “Get out.”

Gotham looks cold and sad as he makes his way back to the airport, snowflakes falling around him like ash.

 

\--

 

The thing is, if he’s being honest with himself, he knew he would fall in love with Bruce from the very beginning. One look at that sad boy drinking himself to death at his own birthday party and he was a goner. That’s Clark’s problem: he needs to save people. And Bruce… Bruce is just begging to be saved.

Oh, not openly. Of course not openly. But every bottle of vodka is a cry for help; every needle he sticks in his veins is just another way of telling the world he’s drowning. Bruce’s entire existence is built around punishing himself. Even the girls he sleeps with, and probably most of the boys, too. Bruce rarely does something simply because he _wants to_ , for himself. Which is why Clark thought he was different. Because Bruce looked at him and saw something he desired and took it, selfishly. Because with him Bruce never needed to be high. Because… because he was good for Bruce, damn it. And there aren’t a lot of good things in Bruce Wayne’s life, Clark knows. And maybe it’s preposterous to count himself as one of them, but he isn’t stupid. He has spent enough time observing Bruce, cataloguing his actions and reactions, to allow himself that assumption.

It doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s not like he’s ever going to be called back to Wayne Manor ever again. The worst about all this is that Clark doesn’t really care about his own hurt. Bruce’s absence is suffocating, the lack of him stinging like withdrawal; but what really nags at him is that Bruce crossed all kinds of lines for him and Clark destroyed all that progress with just a few words. It took immeasurable courage for the young millionaire to ask Clark to come back, to stay. And it hadn’t stopped there, either. Bruce had allowed Clark to see him unveiled, at his most vulnerable. He had opened doors to him Clark knows no one else had had access to before. And now all these doors are locked once again, all because Clark couldn’t keep his jealousy in check and his mouth shut. What a mess.

He tries forgetting about it. He goes out with the cute blonde girl from his Anthropology class that’s been flirting with him all semester, only there isn’t a minute during their date where his mind doesn’t drift to blue eyes and black hair. He apologizes to her on her doorstep, tells her he thought he could do it but that apparently he’s still hung up on someone, and she kisses him on the cheek gently and pats his shoulder in sympathy. After that, he’s too aware of his own miserableness to try again. He lets Lois and Diana drag him to a few parties, fucks a football player in a bathroom stall, and drinks more than he should. When his Ma calls and ends up asking why he sounds so unhappy, he doesn’t have the heart to lie.

“I’m in love,” he sighs. “I messed it up.”

“Buy her flowers and use your words,” Martha Kent tells him fondly. “I know you, my sweet boy. I can’t have been that bad.”

He wishes he could tell her. Maybe he will, one day, when it feels less like the world could burn him alive for being who he is. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, or that he’s afraid she’ll reject him if she knows; it’s more than he doesn’t want her to bear this burden with him. She’ll worry, he knows. She can’t help it. She worries enough as it is.

“I will,” he promises.

“Good,” his mother says, and he can hear her smile in her voice through the phone. “Bring her over, one day.” It almost makes him cry, that she’s so confident he could get anyone back with the help of a bouquet and his nonexistent charm. She has so much faith in him, she always had.

In the end, that’s what gives him the strength to pick up his phone and ring the manor.

 

\--

 

Bruce is, understandably, not happy to see him. He barely looks at him before inquiring, “What are you doing here?” coldly.

Clark stands awkwardly on his doorstep, hands shoved in his pockets. “I wanted to apologize.”

“I don’t want your apology,” Bruce says, shaking his head. In his dorm room, dressed in just a sweater and pajama pants, he looks younger than his twenty-two years.

“Bruce, come on, I took a two-hour train and three buses to get here,” he tries. “Can you at least let me in?”

“No one asked you to come,” Bruce scowls, but he does step aside and closes the door behind Clark once he comes in.

“Alfred says you’ve been moping.”

“I’m going to fire Alfred,” Bruce says between gritted teeth. “You called him?”

Clark looks down. “You weren’t picking up my calls. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Bruce rolls his eyes, “Get the hint and _leave me the fuck alone_?”

“No,” Clark says, suddenly very serious. “Bruce. Bruce, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You called me a whore.”

“I didn’t—”

“You implied,” Bruce cuts him off harshly.

“That’s not what I—no. You’re right, my intentions don’t matter.” He scratches his neck nervously, trying to find the right words. “What I said to you, the way I acted… that’s inexcusable. I was angry, and I took out that anger on you, when really I was angry at myself. I am so unbelievably sorry, Bruce.”

“I brought you into my house,” Bruce whispers. Something in Clark’s gut aches, and he takes a step forward, reaches out but stops himself before he can actually touch Bruce. It’s Bruce who takes his hand, places it on his cheek. His skin is warm under Clark’s palm.

“Bruce,” he starts, and his voice sounds awfully hoarse. “I don’t think I have it in me to share you.”

“I know,” Bruce says. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”

For a while, they just look at each other. In the feeble light of the neon lamp hanging from the ceiling, Bruce seems even paler than usual, ethereal. Now more than ever he looks like a prince, and Clark is hit with the _need_ to fall to his knees and kiss his knuckles, to show him wordlessly that Bruce _has him_ , all of him. He doesn’t do any of that but he does bring his other hand up to cup Bruce’s face. “I’m in love with you.”

“I know,” Bruce says again. “That’s a shitty thing to spring on someone when you’re asking for forgiveness, you know?”

Clark stutters. “It’s—it’s part of the apology. It’s the reason.”

“I forgive you,” Bruce says. He sounds tired. There’s a _but_.

“But you don’t want to see me anymore,” Clark fills in the blank.

“It’s not about what I want,” Bruce shakes his head.

 _But it should be_ , Clark wants to scream. _I should be_. “I understand,” he says instead, and it hurts.

Bruce’s smile is sad and wary. “I really, really don’t think you do.”

When they kiss, it tastes like longing, salt and smoke. Clark pretends he doesn’t feel Bruce cry against his skin.


End file.
